The Godwood
by thelordsnow
Summary: If Jon Snow would have reached Winterfell to confront Ramsay Bolton, how would it go? Like, this. Jon awaits Ramsay in Winterfell's Godswood, ready to accept the threat Ramsay so unwisely sent him.


The Godswood, ever a place of tranquillity for each lord of Winterfell. However, Jon Snow had a feeling Ramsay snow – no, Ramsay Bolton, would not feel the same way. And so here he stood, his sword placed out naked as its forging, a smooth line of steel amongst the ochre's and scarlet's of Autumn's fallen leaves. He looked into the eyes on the weeping heart tree before him, studying its expression, trying to see if what the face conveyed any sign of how this meeting would go. At the moment, the bones of Winterfell were occupied by over a thousand wildings, who had been keen to take on the job of the lord commanders escort, as Jon journeyed fourth to meet this threat with sword in hand. But his sword was not in his hand, and he prayed silently, that Bolton's wouldn't be in his either. A stark, he may have been, if he had taken up Stannis offer, but Stannis was dead, and his ghost was no use to him now. 'The mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone' Tyrion Lannister had once told him, and he hoped his mind would not fail him now.

The crunch of snow covered leaves was the sound that alerted Jon of Ramsay's approach, he turned slowly, his mouth slightly open and expelling wisps of white mist. "Bastard" was his greeting, as he pulled up short of about five feet, trying not to look past Jon at the heart tree behind him. Jon Smiled, a rare thing, but sweet.

"you threatened to kill me, Bolton" he had been about to replace Bolton, with Snow, but thought better of it, the nights watch took no part in the wars of the realm, and so if this man had been legitimised, would it not seem prudent that Jon accept it, even if it were by a ten year old, sat on a pile of cushions atop the iron throne? He examined the man's face, every line, and even now, as the man scowled at him, he could see what he would look like if he were to smile, it would be a cruel smile, all sharp and tight. He could see no warmth in those eyes either, but there was no pretending he was not of the north, even if he was not the true lord of Winterfell. Either way, this was not a man to cross.

Ramsay motioned to Longclaw, a look crossed with amusement and confusion etched across his sharp features. Jon lost the smile at once, replacing it with his usual sombre demeanour. He turned to face his opponent fully, looking down at him with judging eyes. "I came here to hear what you have to say, Bolton, and I do not wish to do it with steal in hand. I try to be a just man, and I would wish the same of you"

The laugh that echoed around the wood showed him he would gain little more than attendance from this man.

He stood stock still, eyebrows furrowed as he studied the man. When he had finished laughing, he stood with a sneer, as if nothing in the world would please him more than to step forward and pull the heart from Jon's chest. "As you wish" Jon span with a whirl of his black cloak and bent to pick his sword from the snow. A sudden warmth rushed to his hand as he felt the familiar grip as his hand enclosed its hilt. He found it hard resisting a smile. He was the lord now, he had to put on the lords face. Just as his father had. In truth, he was no lord, but he was confident…and being confident was the last thing he needed right now. He sighed, shrugging the cloak off his shoulders. "Come on, bastard; let's see what you can do with a sword." Ramsay stood before him, the smile fading now his opponent stood, armed and ready. He looked the image of fear. Jon laughed a soft chuckle, just loud enough to reverberate around their surroundings. "not so brave now?" a rustle behind him made him turn, as Ghost emerged from the woods. His snout was a mass of fading pick fure. He must have made a kill; this wood was more of a home to him than anywhere Jon had lived after. He looked back to his companion, seeing the flash of wariness flash across his face at the sigh of the silent Direwolf. Ghost padded softly over to Jon, letting him bury his hand in the fur of his neck. "Bolton, meet Ghost" His finger released the handful of fur and the direwolf launched himself at the man, gaining only a short shriek before the throat was ripped from his body. "Not so brave now" Jon murmured again, as the scent of blood mingled with the frozen air, creating a sense of triumph and euphoria in Jon Snow's mind, As the heart tree stood and watched, a silent sentinel, watching, hearing, being nothing more than an subject of respect, as the world of men changed and crumbled around it.


End file.
